


A Man Lost In The Desert

by tacotheshark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacotheshark/pseuds/tacotheshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's death has Sherlock coping with the discovery that his emotions can affect him so deeply, as well as with the emotions themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock lounges in his armchair, loose and lazy as he lies back, his legs splayed apart in front of him. His violin, sitting in his lap, is plucked almost absently by his slender fingers while he stares into the fireplace. He’s _bored,_ and quite obviously so, John thinks. He’s glad, at least, that Sherlock hasn’t got the gun this time.

Across the room from where he sits, Sherlock’s phone rings. He pays no mind to it at first- John wonders whether he hasn’t noticed or he simply doesn’t care, but soon, without taking his eyes of the hearth or stopping the steady plucking of his violin strings, Sherlock asks, though it’s clearly more of a demand than a question, “John, would you get my phone?”

John sighs, bothered though he’d never expect anything else from Sherlock. He knows fairly well that arguing with Sherlock will get him nowhere, and the call may be about a case to keep Sherlock busy, so he complies, rising from his spot on the couch and taking the few steps that Sherlock apparently couldn’t to reach the phone. He answers it, placing one hand flat on the table to lean against it as he speaks. “Hello?”

“John?” It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, and sounding quite distressed, John notes.

“Yes, what is it?” asks John, interested. “Is there a case?”

“Well, yes, maybe. I need to speak to Sherlock. Can you put him on?”

“Er, yes, just a moment.” John covers the phone with one hand so to not bother Lestrade with the inevitable banter that he’s sure will follow. “Sherlock,” he calls, “Lestrade needs to speak with you.”

“Ask him what he wants,” comes Sherlock’s reply from the slack body that hasn’t moved an inch.

John groans as he returns to the phone. “He’d like you to tell me what you’re calling about.”

“I think I should tell him personally.” Lestrade’s voice is laden with uncertainty, and John begins to wonder if he should be concerned.

“He’d really like to speak with you,” John says to Sherlock, but Sherlock only groans, throwing his head back against the chair.

“This is pointless, John, just find out what he wants.”

John sighs once again, rubbing both his eyes with one hand. “Look,” he says into the phone, “he’s not letting up. Just tell me what it is, alright?” Sherlock begins to tap his foot impatiently to the rhythm of the melody he plays on his violin.

There’s an audible gulp from Lestrade, and John begins to grow curious of what the reason for it could possibly be. A deep breath, next, and John’s beginning to grow impatient as well, but still, just a bit anxious. Lestrade’s voice finally comes like water breaking through a dam. “Mycroft Holmes is dead.” Definitely concerned, now. So, very, definitely.

“Oh,” John utters, and it’s barely a whisper. “Oh… Oh, wow…”

“Will you tell him?” John notices, finally, the pained tone of Lestrade’s voice. “It’s probably better that he hear it from you.”

“Yes, of course, I… thank you.”

John doesn’t hang up the phone, but holds it limply by his side. As a doctor, he knows well how to break this sort of news, though he never in a lifetime would have thought that it be Sherlock to whom he breaks it. He can’t help but be a bit nervous; Sherlock won’t react like his patients, can’t possibly handle it anywhere near well, will very likely wring John’s neck, if John is assuming correctly. He gulps. “Sherlock.” John is much too aware, now, of every little waver and quirk in his voice as he calls out the name. Sherlock tips his head back further to better view John, albeit upside down. John takes several steps toward the chair and inhales slowly. “Sherlock, Mycroft’s passed away.”

John thinks for a moment that he’s hears Sherlock give a small gasp, though if he had it had barely been audible. The violin’s melody ceases the instant the sentence is said and Sherlock’s tapping foot stills as well. He no longer holds his violin, leaving it teetering haphazardly across his thighs where it can slip off and onto the floor at any moment. Sherlock says not a thing.

“Sherlock,” John says, standing now right next to Sherlock in his chair. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes, and he lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because he isn’t quite sure what else he can do.

Sherlock jerks away violently the instant John’s fingers touch the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, and John’s almost terrified. Oh, Sherlock, the perfect picture of mental health; this is just what he needed.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed once again on the hearth and his jaw is clenches tighter than John’s ever seen it. “Is that all he called about?” he asks, alternating between relaxing his fingers and digging them into the arms of his chair. His voice isn’t sad or disappointed, but harsh and quick and urgent for more information, and really not very different from his usual tone.

John doesn’t move from his spot mere inches from Sherlock. “Are you still there?” he asks into the phone, having raised it hesitantly to his face once again.

“Yes, hello…” Lestrade is still hesitant, with every right to be. “How did he take it?”

John ignores the question, as he has no answer. “You said there might be a case?”

“Oh… well…” Lestrade pauses and it’s almost as if John can hear him weighing his options on what he should say. “Well, there’s… there’s a case, yes. It’s Mycroft. I don’t want to ask this of him, I hope you know that, but, well… there are officers who think he won’t even care and some who think he’d like a case, I… John, what do you think?”

John doesn’t even realize at first that he’s begun to raise his voice. “Well of course he cares, he-“

“John.” It’s Sherlock speaking, this time, cutting John off with a sharp bark of his name.

“No.” John says to Lestrade. “No.” He’s adamant, he can’t let Sherlock, he can’t possibly, But Sherlock cuts in again.

“A case?” It’s a question but it doesn’t sound it in Sherlock’s near expressionless voice.

“Sherlock, no!” John’s aware that he sounds much more aggravated than he should, though it’s mostly worry. “The case is Mycroft, Sherlock, you can’t possibly-“

“I’ll take it.”

“Sherlock!”

“ _Let me be, I’ll take the case._ ” Sherlock is snarling again, baring his teeth, almost; If John can’t argue with Sherlock on trivial, day-to-day matters, why had he ever thought Sherlock would subside now? When his brother’s just _died,_ for God’s sake! Every ounce of John’s consciousness is screaming at him, questioning him: what kind of a colleague, what kind of a friend, what kind of a _doctor,_ even, would he be if he allowed Sherlock to investigate the death, or murder, it seems, of his own brother?

Sherlock isn’t the common person, he doesn’t think in common ways and he certainly doesn’t deal with his problems in common ways. John’s beginning to wonder if Sherlock would be better off dealing with this devastation in his own way, which may actually involve taking it on as a case.

Sherlock stands, letting his violin clatter to the floor and snatching the phone harshly from John’s hand. “It’ll take it, where are you? … Yes, of course, I know the address, I’ll be right there.” There’s a beep as he hands up the phone.

John is utterly speechless as he stands, gaping, at Sherlock’s stone cold face. Sherlock’s called himself a sociopath, but John’s never paid much mind to it- John wonders if it, possibly, could be true. Certainly Sherlock must feel something more for his brother than John, who hasn’t met the man more than a few times. He seems to feel something, definitely, but it seems to be anger, which isn’t unusual for Sherlock, though he hasn’t quite specified at what. He doesn’t seem sad and he doesn’t seem grievous, and John doesn’t know whether he should try to help with something, _anything,_ or whether he should let Sherlock simply be Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

The cab ride is completely silent, apart from Sherlock’s loud slamming of the door as he’d gotten it and his spouting Mycroft’s address at the driver. John had barely known Mycroft, but despair sits heavy in his heart and its almost as if he’s at a lot of oxygen. He’s had friends die before, far too many, and the feeling is horridly familiar. He can’t even imagine how Sherlock must feel, never having lost a friend and just now having lost his brother. Or rather, how Sherlock should feel or would feel if he was anyone other than himself, as he quite possibly may not be feeling very much at all.

John doesn’t expect Sherlock to speak, so he stays quiet himself. The ride passes fairly quickly with his staring out the window and basking in his own grief for a man who had been little more than an acquaintance.

When the cab pulls up to the house, Sherlock hops out of it quickly and tosses the owed cash absently into the passenger’s seat through the window. As soon as John’s out of the car, the driver speeds away without a word.

John spots Lestrade first, who in turn spots John and Sherlock almost immediately. They meet halfway across the lawn, and Lestrade is the first to speak. “Sherlock,” he says, and there’s genuine concern written all across his features. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t touch Sherlock, he knows better, but it’s clear that he, just like John, itches to reach out and do something to help.

Sherlock merely grunts in response.

John speaks then, after the uncomfortable, worrisome silence that had been clearly present. “So… Mycroft… he’s, he’s in there?” His voice is weak and somber, and he makes a limp gesture toward the house.

Lestrade nods, just as melancholy. Sherlock is off, then, turning on his heels as he begins to walk toward the house. He pauses in his tracks when he realizes that John isn’t following. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks, as if he’s referring to something like an amusement park, some place of the sort, one to which John obviously would like to go and would not doubt it for a second- certainly not as if he’s referring to the house inside which his own dead brother lies.

“Sherlock, it’s _Mycroft,_ ” John says with a small shrug and a shake of his head. “I can’t.”

There’s a flash of something on Sherlock’s face- disappointment, possibly?- but John doesn’t quite catch it before Sherlock’s back is to him again.

John sighs, turning back to Lestrade.

“You know, I never really thought I’d say this,” Lestrade starts, with a small, sad smile, before his face falls again with a shake of his head. “I’m so worried about him.”

“Yeah, I am too. I think he’s handling it…” John thinks first to say well, but it would probably be a terrific lie. “I don’t know is he’s even handling it, honestly. If he is, it’ll be in his own way.”

Lestrade chews on that for a moment, looking off to the side. “Maybe. You’ve got to help him, John.”

“I’m trying.” John can only shrug and sigh again. He hopes will every fiber of his being that Sherlock will let him at least try. “Did you know Mycroft?”

“Not well,” is Lestrade’s answer, accompanied by a shrug. “Did you?”

“No, not well either.”

There’s another silence, in which neither man knows exactly what to say. It’s broken, again, by John. “So, murder, then?”

“Yeah,” sighs Lestrade. “Shot.”

Lestrade’s eye is caught suddenly by something behind John. As he looks, John noticed around turns around to see Sherlock hurrying out of the house and ignoring all who try to get his attention. “Sherlock” he calls, approaching the man, who wears the same stoic expression that he had been wearing ever since Lestrade had called. Sherlock stops and turns to face John without saying a word. He stares expectantly. “Where are you going?”

“Taking a walk,” is Sherlock’s reply.

“You’re taking a walk?” John doesn’t mean to sound as disbelieving as he does.

“Yes, I…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and his eyes dart around the lawn. “Squeamish, yes. Blood, gore, you know. Got to get out.” With that, he’s off, again, walking down the sidewalk with feet moving like the wheels of a bicycle.

Sherlock is not _squeamish._ Sherlock is the least squeamish person John’s ever met. He’s kept severed heads in the fridge, for God’s sake! John and Lestrade both stand gaping as Sherlock turns the corner with his head held high, his chest heaving underneath his black coat, and his legs pumping so strongly and swiftly he could easily be mistaken for someone simply exercising if it weren’t for his elegant attire and somber demeanor.

“He’s not squeamish,” John says blankly,. He turns to Lestrade, who is still staring after Sherlock.

“I know he’s not squeamish. I was there when Sergeant Donovan found the eyeballs in his microwave.” Lestrade lets out a deep sigh. “What are we going to do with him?”

John wonders the same. He wonders, also, why Sherlock would lie so obviously. The conclusion he comes to is unsettling. What is Sherlock’s somehow made himself believe it? He could be in denial of his feelings because he doesn’t see himself as one to feel them. John considers, and it’s going to be hell trying to fix him up again, there’s no doubt in John’s mind about that. He hangs around the crime scene for a while because he doesn’t want to be gone when Sherlock returns.

However, Sherlock doesn’t plan to return, as John finds out about an hour later when he gets a call from Mrs. Hudson asking where’s he is because Sherlock’s home and refusing to speak to her.

That night, for the millionth night since they had moved in together, Sherlock keeps John up with his loud, erratic violin playing. This time, John doesn’t have the heart of the energy to ask him to stop. The next night is the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is curled up on the couch, wearing pajamas and wrapped in a sheet, and John is practically crawling out of his skin with discomfort as he watched. He figured he’d let Sherlock be Sherlock and deal with it on his own, but he so obviously _isn’t_ dealing with, not at all, because he’s barely moved from the couch in days.

John’s become so strung out over Sherlock that he doesn’t have a spare second to think about himself. He doesn’t have a spare second to think about anything at all, for that matter, because every single thought is about Sherlock, which really was or almost was the case even before Mycroft’s death, though now it’s just so stressful because he wants, he _needs,_ Sherlock to be okay again. Sherlock needs to be okay again. _London_ needs Sherlock to be okay again because no one will ever be like him or do what he does and he’s so special- he doesn’t deserve this.

John isn’t a therapist. He’s really quite far from it, considering all the time he’s spent in front of one. He’s probably one of the only people, if not the only person, Sherlock trusts, though, so he’ll try his hand at helping Sherlock to face his feelings, as inept as his attempt may be.

He makes tea first; it seems simply the right thing to do. As he crosses into the living room from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands, Sherlock doesn’t look up or say a thing, just keeps his eyes fixed on the television in front on him which is tuned to some crime show with which Sherlock normally couldn’t be bothered. John hopes will all his heart that this change isn’t permanent as he sits in an armchair next to the couch, sets the mugs down on the table, and chews on his lip for a moment. Sherlock looks up at the sound of the ceramic mugs clanging against the wood of the table.

“Oh, tea, thank you,” he mutters, sitting up and raising the mug nearest him to his lips to take a sip, before lying back down and hugging the sheet tighter around him.

John sighs, trailing his index finger along the rim of his own mug. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I’m watching the telly,” Sherlock says simply, casually.

“And why are you doing that?” John chews, still, on his lip as he watches Sherlock, pained.

“Why not?” The answer is one that John would expect from anyone, anyone at all, but Sherlock. He gulps.

“On any other day you could give me a million reasons why not.” Sherlock doesn’t respond to that in words, just shifts uncomfortably and hugs the sheet tighter still. It’s clear that he’d rather not discuss it, whatever _it_ may be, but this only tells John, to some degree, that Sherlock understands how wrong things are, how wrong he is and how troubled he may be, so John tries with all his might to be as gentle as possible when he then says, “Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Sherlock licks his lips before turning slightly toward John. “What ever about?”

“You,” John says, first. He hesitates, then, takes a sip of tea to draw out the time before he has to continue. Sherlock stares at him with slight puzzlement but mild surprise as well, with somewhat wide eyes and a stern, shut mouth. John speaks again, quietly, because he’s really rather not say it, though he hasn’t much of another option. “…Mycroft.” John cringes a bit at the name; Sherlock stays still.

“Well,” Sherlock says, as if he’s been struck by a particularly relevant or surprising detail of a case, but certainly without the usual grin or excitement, just shock, though still just mild. “What is there to discuss?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re…” John groans, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. Sherlock’s got much too much pride to give in that easily- John should have expected as much. “You’re kidding.” What else is there for John to say? What, possibly could there be? He’s not speechless, not very surprised, actually, but Sherlock is going to be the death of him and that’s all he knows for sure as he watched with a pained expression the consulting-detective-but-possibly-this-no-longer, who says nothing in response to that.

John tries, still, to be gentle with his next words. Not sure exactly if it will soften them, he wishes anything but to come on too strong, too intrusive. “I think this is affecting you much more than you’re willing to admit.”

Sherlock’s eyes seem to darken a shade, his glare smoldering and his shoulders taut. “How so?”

“Sherlock,” John starts, and it’s both a groan and a plea. “Sherlock, you’re… you’re not doing _anything._ ” He pauses, unsure of whether he should continue. Though, he does, when Sherlock doesn’t answer him, verbally at least. Each moment John speaks, Sherlock’s face hardens further, as if he’s explicitly in disbelief of John’s nerve to say such things. John almost feels bad, but he has no other option, as much as both he and Sherlock wish he had. “You… you sit here, Sherlock. You watch crap telly. You’ve got to have noticed this isn’t normal behavior for you? It’s absolutely horrid to watch, Sherlock… horrid, to see you like this.”

“ _Like this,_ ” Sherlock repeats, mocking and sarcastic, annoyed and quite obviously so. “Well, John, care to elaborate on this _this_? _Please._ ”

“Sherlock, you’ve, you’ve got to know what I mean!” John’s racking his brain for anything he could possibly say to be anything but offensive or condescending. There is nothing. He speaks, anyway. “Come on, you’re lazy, you’re lazy, you haven’t been doing anything but sitting around all day and you haven’t even been doing any of your experiments, for God’s sake, Sherlock! It’s… it’s pathetic!” Oh, no, John shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have at all. He mentally curses himself for even thinking that was a good idea.

“Oh? And what do you propose I do about that?” Sherlock’s voice is still calm but just barely, dancing on the edge of a cliff that points over a shouting, ill-tempered oblivion.

“Sherlock,” John says, meticulous, trying so very hard not to push Sherlock too far, to push him off the edge of that cliff. “I… I think what you need to do it really… accept your feelings, Sherlock… accept that you really cared about Mycroft.”

The hard, pressed line of Sherlock’s mouth morphs easily into a disgusted grimace. “I don’t care about _anyone,_ ” he shouts with a booming voice that could shatter glass. As he does, he sits up, pulling the sheet tighter around him in more of an act of defiance, of separation from John, than one of comfort.

“You can’t believe that!” John shouts in return, and it’s still very much a plea. It can’t be true, can’t possibly be, John’s almost certain of it. Sherlock cares about John, surely, and his family as well, especially Mycroft. Surely. It’s being untrue doesn’t stop John from being hurt, though, just a bit.

“I am a sociopath, John,” Sherlock spits back, gruff and irritated, his voice surprisingly smooth and composed for its alarming tone and volume. “You have been aware of this since you’ve met me, have you no understanding of what this entails?””

“Oh of course I know Sherlock, but I’m sure we both know by now that you’re definitely not!” John tries to breathe slowly, calm, collected, but its no use as he simply is none of those things.

Sherlock stands, then. “I’ll be in my room. I’m going to assume you have enough sense not to follow.” He turns, angrily, and the sheet whips around with him. John lets his head fall into his hands, wondering what he’s ever to do with his mess of a flatmate.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is gone, and John frightened beyond repair. He sends text after text to Sherlock’s mobile, each more pressing than the previous. He calls more than once, much more than once, but each time he isn’t met with a single ring before he hears an automated voicemail message. He asks Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock’s said a thing to her, to which she replies, “No, not a thing, he never does. Why, is something wrong?” John doesn’t tell her, decides he shouldn’t, not until Sherlock is ready if that time ever comes.

After hours of John’s worry and panic, Sherlock strolls into the flat as casually as any day, shooting John barely an acknowledging glance as he heads for his armchair. He says not a word. John’s mouth falls open, astounded as well as repulsed by Sherlock’s lack of apology or at least an explanation. But no, nothing, nothing at all which is completely normal for Sherlock, but John will have none of it.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts, raging, almost, as he catches Sherlock halfway across the living room.

Sherlock eyes John narrowly as his entire body stills and stiffens. “Out.” His voice is low and sharp.

 _Out._ Genius Sherlock, Sherlock who doesn’t care about his feelings, gives no explanation but _out._ John shakes his head, pacing angrily around the still, silent man who doesn’t sit, only watches and scoffs.

“No, you don’t get let off that easily, Sherlock!” John stops waving his arms around so obscenely the moment he realized what he’s doing, but carries on his interrogating. “Do you know how _worried_ I was? You owe me at least an explanation, of all things.”

Sherlock huffs loudly and glares with impatient, smoldering eyes. “You’re not my mother John. I owe you nothing,” he sneers, and it’s nearly a growl.

 _Oh, of course,_ John thinks, wants to scream it aloud from the rooftops, even, but knows it’s in much worse taste than anything else he could say, _You owe me nothing, nothing at all because I’m nothing to you, is that right? I’m just your flatmate, it’s not as if I’m your friend as well, not as if I’ve helped you solve cases and gone with you just about everywhere. Not as if I’m trying to help you be decent again after your brother’s death._ Instead, he says, still rearing with exasperation,” I am your _friend,_ Sherlock. I don’t know how you can possibly deny that! If- if you have anything even remotely close to a friend, it’s me.” Sherlock doesn’t reply. John raises his eyebrows, urging Sherlock to say _something._ “ _God,_ Sherlock, your mother! Have you even spoken to her since Mycroft died?”

“I wrote her,” is Sherlock’s reply, spoken quickly and sharply. “I informed her of Mycroft’s death and asked her to choose the coffin.”

“The _coffin,_ Sherlock- you are going to the funeral, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock states, as if it’s there isn’t a thing more obvious in the world. “I wouldn’t want to upset Mummy.”

John stops pacing. “You care about her,” he utters, much less aggravated now than hoping he has the opportunity to get somewhere, at least, with Sherlock.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, Sherlock, you do care about your mum, don’t you?”

Sherlock looks just a bit perturbed. “I’m considerate of her feelings.”

“Are you saying that you don’t, then?”

“I never said that.”

John stares through searching eyes at Sherlock, who seems very unsettled and uncomfortable, though John can’t being himself to bother with that now. “Do you care about her, Sherlock?” as asks, as gently as he can, though it may not be very gentle at all.

“John, stop.”

“You do, Sherlock,” John says, stepping closer. You care about your mum, just like you care about Mycroft. You love her, you… you love him, it’s… Sherlock’s, it’s alright, it’s good, it’s…” Sherlock’s lips are beginning to quiver and his glare to intensify, and John’s eyes widen as he watches.

Sherlock is angry. The realization has John fretful. He’d been prepared for this exactly, or so he’d thought, as he’s beginning to doubt his idea of pressing Sherlock until he crumbles just for a poor attempt to put him back together again. “It doesn’t _matter,_ John.”

Sherlock begins to pace, himself, just a few steps before he’s staring John in the face once again with eyes like daggers. “It doesn’t matter if I cared or if I loved him because he’s _gone!_ ”

Sherlock’s eyes begin to twitch, then, just so very slightly but nothing John wouldn’t notice. John watches in wonder as those eyes begin to water, still, just slightly.

“ _Gone,_ John!” With a choked breath, Sherlock falls onto the cough, laying on his back. “He’s gone, he’s _dead._ ” It’s then when the first tear escapes Sherlock’s eyes, met quickly by the second and soon the tears are streaming freely down Sherlock’s face as he speaks. “What does it matter if I cared? I’ve nothing to show for it anymore. Nothing.”

The stunned John hurries to comfort, easily fitting alongside Sherlock’s thin body as he sits and looks down at Sherlock, who continues on, using exaggerated hand gestures with tears still flowing down his reddening face. “It doesn’t matter if I loved him, nothing matters anymore, not him. _God,_ John.”

It’s lovely in a terrible way, for John, because he knows he, finally, can do something. He can _fix_ Sherlock, finally, make him okay again. As an army doctor, comfort is one of his specialties, second only to medicine., and if he’s sure of anything at all, he’s sure that if such a chance exists, this is his chance to do some good for Sherlock.

“Go on, Sherlock,” John says, soft and urging, and there’s hope, swelling up in him like a balloon and pushing against the edges of his chest. He has a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing gently, sliding his thumb against the side of Sherlock’s neck ever so often. John normally wouldn’t think Sherlock to succumb to or accept such a gesture, but it only seems fitting, in the state in which Sherlock is. “It’s alright, just talk to me.”

Sherlock says nothing, but chokes and coughs on tears as he breathes. He lips tremble on every breath and he pulls them in several times to try to find control oh himself, of his feelings, to no avail.

“Sherlock, please.” John’s voice grows weak and with hope, there’s an inevitable doubt as well. He fears that Sherlock won’t go on talking, that he won’t share a thing more, that John will have broken him down to this state and will never have a chance to build him back up. “Tell me, please, I want to know.”

Every shaky breath of Sherlock’s releases a small whimper, and every small whimper tears on the rip in John’s tremendously distraught heart. Nothing would make John happier than to assuage Sherlock’s pain, nothing in the world. “John,” Sherlock says, his voice absolutely wrecked, weak and soft and wavering. “I’m telling you this in confidence.”

“Of course, of course, please, go on.” John never imagined that he would need this as much as Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a deep breath that he sputters out with coughs in the second after. “I’m starting to believe that you may be right.”

John says nothing, just waits for Sherlock to continue.

“I cared, John,” says Sherlock, having raised his voice to a frustrated shout and still waving his arms about. He squeezes his eyes shit and rubs at them, all while trying to inhale steadily against the pull of his insistent sobbing. “I _cared-_ this is what you want to hear, isn’t it, John? Well here, I cared, I cared so, so much and I _loved _him, John. I loved him so much and I want to shoot myself for not realizing it sooner.” Sherlock doesn’t look at John but at the ceiling, almost as if he’s screaming at it personally. Slowly, his eyes find their way to John’s and they’re so terribly sad, so filled with raw emotion and regret, that for the millionth time that night, John feels his heart break right in two. He brings a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and runs his fingers across it and down Sherlock’s wet, though smooth cheek.__

Ever so tentatively, John lowers his head to Sherlock’s and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, just barely grazing the soft, trembling skin. With the lips, the sensation of Sherlock’s skin is amplified a hundredfold. Sherlock exhales loudly under John, and every crease born of his stress is so apparent under John’s lips, so strikingly there and worrisome. The hand he has on Sherlock’s shoulder tightens, and Sherlock lays his own hand over it.

As John rises again, he mutters to Sherlock, “Sit up?” And Sherlock does just that, so John can then collect Sherlock in his arms and squeeze Sherlock’s thin frame with every ounce of strength he can muster. Sherlock’s weight, while not much, is significant against John’s chest, and John decides easily that he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s better now, he thinks. Not good, but better.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock says, the next day, that he’s going out, and John doesn’t press further. “Just to fetch something,” Sherlock adds, and John bids him goodbye with faith that he’s figured out what’s best.

Not half an hour later, when Sherlock returns, John opens his mouth to ask where he’s gone, since he hasn’t got anything with him that he hadn’t before. He notices then the black umbrella Sherlock holds that had blended in with his black coat, and he breathes out is “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods in acknowledgement before he retires to his bedroom.

It’s midnight, at least, and John’s gotten up to pour himself a glass of water. Only then does he hear the loud dobbing coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, and his heart just drops, right into his stomach. The water can wait, surely- he’s needed. He’s most definitely needed, and it doesn’t take him another minute to make his way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Looking in, Sherlock looks so tremendously precious and so unbelievably sad. The lights in the room are all off, but he’s still dressed as he lays on his side on top of the covers. He holds the umbrella close, so close considering how small and thin it us. His arms are wrapped around his stomach, only because he has nothing more solid than the umbrella to hold in them.

John doesn’t waste time with a greeting or a question, just enters the room, leaving the door just a crack for a bit of light from the hallway. He climbs into the bed and Sherlock looks up at him, and they don’t exchange a single word. John lies now, facing Sherlock, and they simply look at each other because no words are needed. Almost subconsciously, John presumes, Sherlock hugs the umbrella tighter in protection.

Sherlock’s lips part just slightly as he draws in a breath and looks at John, and it’s nothing hidden that he’s most vulnerable now, with Mycroft’s umbrella that he must have stolen from the crime scene. John offers a small, sympathetic smile, and Sherlock nods, trembling.

Sherlock relaxes and separates his arms, only to grasp the umbrella in his hands, so very firmly, almost as if his fingers were a vice. Though his grip relaxes soon, he buries his fingers in the black, nylon folds time and time again, basking in the feel of the fabric on his fingertips like it’s the only thing to ever matter in the universe. It is, to him.

The light from the hallway casts a dim glow over Sherlock’s pale face, highlighting the intensity of the care with which he handles the umbrella, as well as the tracks left on his face by his tears and the new tracks being painted by the second as tears slip easily out of his eye and into the red, raw skin underneath, before soaking spots on the sheets.

The only sounds in the room for quite some time are those of Sherlock’s labored breathing and the whimpers that never cease to escape his throat. Both men are content with this, and it remains until Sherlock comments, “I keep thinking, John, that it’s so thin, just like he was, with… with his diet and all.”

It’s clear and plain to John- probably that to anyone with eyes and a fairly susceptible heart- that the umbrella that lies between the two radiates the warmth and soul of a million shimmering spirits mingled together, but also a painful as well as painfully obvious lack thereof, because everything it symbolizes is gone.

Every ounce of Sherlock’s hurt and pain seems to ripple out and every glance at the wrecked, sobbing man is crippling. Each of Sherlock’s small, broken sounds is a stab to John’s heart, and John can’t help but reach out to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. Never has he felt so connected to his flatmate, to the genius consulting detective who is everything John admires and everything John needs in his life. Sherlock’s face is so soft, so sticky but so warm and smooth, so filled with the life and emotion that surrounds the pair and their umbrella.

John is leaning forward again, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s face for the second time, but this time to Sherlock’s pale, pink lips that still tremble as he tries his best to breathe steadily and be decent at the kissing that he, simply being himself, doesn’t do often at all.

Right over Mycroft’s umbrella do John and Sherlock share their first kiss, which couldn’t at all be more memorable for either. Sherlock associates John’s lips, then, not with death, but with comfort.

As they pull apart, John wraps one arm around Sherlock’s bony waist and beings the other up to rest his hand on Sherlock’s face. He plants a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone, then, before swiping his thumb over the spot.

“John,” Sherlock croaks, and John presses their foreheads together as they breathe heavily against each other, though much more so on Sherlock’s part. “John, thank you.”

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John mutters as Sherlock nuzzles into his neck and the umbrella presses into both of their chests at once.


	6. Chapter 6

The room provided by the funeral home is beige, mostly, with a creamy white carpet and light brown in places as well, adding a bit of light to the somberness of the event. In the front of the room sits a chestnut coffin, and inside of that coffin lies the still body of Mycroft Holmes.

Not once during the wake does Sherlock leave John’s side, about which John has no complaints. As they stand together in the front row, one of Sherlock’s hands grasps one of John’s tightly, and the other has its fingers curled around the handle of the umbrella that John doesn’t believe is ever going to leave Sherlock’s grip.

They’d had a conversation, earlier in the morning, about whether Sherlock should give Mycroft the umbrella back, or whether he should keep it as a reminder. Sherlock had been quite distraught over the decision, until John had told him that Mycroft would probably much rather give his brother something to remember him by than keep anything himself.

As the funeral goers line up to pay their respects, John stands by Sherlock on that line. When Sherlock’s turn comes, he seems at a loss for breath and words as well, but he steps up to the coffin all the same. John watches as Sherlock stares down at the body, the first time Sherlock has seen it for more than a few seconds, and it’s good that Sherlock is able to see Mycroft now, in one of his suits, looking so tremendously normal for himself.

Sherlock bends down slowly, with one hand gripping the edge of the open coffin what seems hard enough to shatter the wood. With lips that still shake, he presses a kiss to his brother’s forehead, to the unmoving skin that Sherlock cherishes with all of his soul, clearly, and that Sherlock drinks in the feel and sight of like a man lost in the desert drinks in water.

John thinks for a moment that he hears a whispered “I love you,” coming from the space around the coffin, but perhaps it was only the wind.


End file.
